


there should be just one safe place in the world

by oliverwalsh



Series: 100 drabbles [2]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: M/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 06:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6107947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverwalsh/pseuds/oliverwalsh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Connor needs a break from himself. Oliver decides to take him on a car trip to nowhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there should be just one safe place in the world

**Author's Note:**

> This is a drabble based on the prompt word _ride_.

It’s been happening a lot lately. He tries to keep count but loses fingers to count on before the week is even over. His arms are aching from holding Connor’s body tightly against his own, his mouth sore from all the reassurance and his eyes itching to the point of tears as he studies the other man intensively whenever he’s near. He watches him scold his tongue on his hot coffee, just to find him gulp down a large chug of cold coffee the next morning. How many times does he have to stop him before heading out the door to correct his clothing? Zip the pants, re-button the dress shirt, actually pick out a pair of matching shoes. It’s funny because Connor used to be the fashion police once; like that time they missed their dinner reservation because he made a big thing out of tie Oliver wanted to wear. Like ties actually matter. Not that he minds it. Not really. Except for the fact that it seems like his boyfriend is losing his mind more and more as the days passes by. Sometimes he gazes into the air, completely lost in his own world and sometimes Oliver can practically feel the protective gaze burn into his neck when he walks a few steps ahead in the grocery shop. At one time, he leaves the isle without announcing it to the whole world and the look on Connor’s face as he comes running keeps him up way past midnight.

It’s been an okay day. He feels like he isn’t sure what a great day is. Good, sure, but he feels like he’s been living with this worrying ache in his belly all his life; he can’t remember what it feels not to have it there. But then again, he can’t remember life before Connor that well either. It makes it more odd. He wants it to be great, he really does, but it’s hard to forget about the secrets obviously driving his best friend insane. He types in the phone number for the emergency psychiatric award more times than he can remember, but he never manages to press the call button. Instead, he makes sure they have their nights busy. Anything from watching long films to making plans with others. It works sometimes. Like this evening. Oliver’s nephew had a dance performance that refused to ever end but honestly? He wishes it hadn’t. Roran soars over the dance floor and Oliver can’t remember a time he felt so much love and pride over someone so tiny. He hadn’t been able to stop stealing glances at Connor, however, but it was obvious that Roran was liked by his sort-of-uncle too by the bright smile that finally reached his eyes this time; making them glitter in the dark. But all evenings turn into nights, of course. It doesn’t matter how many more pages he makes himself read or how Connor is reading even the god damn sports page in his New York Times app. They cuddle up in the middle of the bed, the lights off. It’s funny how the dark used to be so comforting but now he feels like he’s about to suffocate. He worries about how much Connor must feel like that; like he’s constantly suffocating. That’s what worries him. He wants to help bend the hand around his throat away. But all he does is whisper, Goodnight and places a kiss just below his boyfriend’s ear. 

He isn’t sure when he fell asleep but he suddenly finds himself jolting awake as a strangled cry leaves Connor’s lips. The younger man has pushed himself away from the comfort of Oliver’s arms, hugging himself as he shakes. He shakes like they show someone shaking in a comedic cartoon. Except this doesn’t feel funny at all. The sheets are sweaty, Connor is drenched. Before Oliver can even reach a hand out, Connor is on the floor. He hits the floor with a bang. The sobbing doesn’t stop, neither does the weak cries. _No, no. Fuck. Please. **Please**._

“Con,” Oliver jumps off the bed, wrapping Connor up into his arms as soon as he reaches him, his grip tight but safe. He has a feeling that’s what he wants to feel. Safe. “Listen to me, we’re at home… in our bed. I know it’s my Star Wars bedset, but it was the only thing clean and you actually went ahead and acccepted it… right after I promised you dinner was your pick,” He whispers softly in the other’s ear. Connor’s breathing slows down just a tiny bit. Oliver keeps whispering sweet nothings into the dark, hoping somehow they will bring him back from the place in his mind that seems to be slowly killing him. 

The shaking becomes shivering, the sobbing becomes sniffling. His hand runs up and down Connor’s back, a weak comfort but the only one he’s able to give. It takes a while more before the other is asleep again. It’s a shallow sleep, and in the dark night, the sniffs and murmurs sound a lot louder than they truly are. But at least it’s sleep. Oliver gently scoops the smaller man up, pressing a light kiss to his pale but sweaty forehead before placing him on the bed. He spends the next hour before dawn staring at the sleeping man, like a parent watching its newborn baby; afraid it’ll stop breathing if they so much as blink. 

Connor is pale when he stumbles into the kitchen the next morning, despite spending longer than usual in the bathroom - the steam from his hot shower nearly reaching the kitchen. 

“I hope that’s banana pancakes,” He says, pulling a blue and white ringer t-shirt over his head. It’s Oliver’s. It aches in a way it didn’t use to do. 

“Technically, it’s just banana and egg. And a tiny bit of vanilla.” It’s their new go-to breakfast. Not that he has ever had trouble making pancakes that early. It’s just that Connor claims they are healthier, and faster. He can agree with both, more or less. He isn’t sure it is _that_ much healthier considering the amount of “pancakes” they both manage to gulp down in one sitting. 

“Is the pancake in the ingredients or the flavour, Ollie?” Connor raises his eyebrows in that playful way and for a moment, Oliver forgets. He rolls his eyes, but unable to stop a smile. 

“I’d say the pancakes are in the dish known as pancakes.” 

“Yet, you are making these that apparently aren’t pancakes but taste just like them.” 

“I like them, they’re just not… pancakes.” Oliver squints, his thoughts racing. “They’re bancakes.” It earns him a loud snort from Connor who sits down, shaking his head. “No, we’re not having them here,” he quickly says, nodding over at the cooler bag next to him on the counter. There’s already some good stuff in there; like apple and cinnamon muffins, some chocolate milk for when either of them gets cranky and a bunch of oranges. 

“What do you mean?” 

“We’re going.” 

“What? Where?” Connor looks suspicious; studying him carefully. “Why?” 

“We’re having a day off,” Oliver tries to sound as stern and sure of himself as possible but it’s hard. But it still feels like the right thing to do; even if Asher picked up the phone to take his “Connor is sick today” message. He sounded miserable. For the fraction of a second, he almost asked him if he wanted to come along. But then he had to remind himself that he can’t fix everyone. Fuck, he’s barely managing to help the one person he is supposed to help. That’s what this is about. _Connor_. 

“What do you mean a day off?” 

“We’re going on a spontaneous car trip, to… wherever we end up. Get your butt into some pants and maybe bring a good book. I’ve got all the music settled.” Even there’s a suspicious glimpse in his eyes, Oliver can’t help but notice how Connor’s whole body seems to relax as he listens to him talking. At least he doesn’t protest. Just gets up and heads towards the bedroom. It feels a bit weird not having to argue with him about anything he just said. He didn’t even comment on Oliver choosing the music; it’s probably the first time. Not even a tiny remark. He prefers the remarks over the silence. 

“I was thinking we could start with some Howard Shore,” Oliver says, clearing his throat as he re-grips the steering wheel. He glances at Connor who smiles weakly. It’s obvious he has a remark on the tip of his tongue but let’s it remain unsaid. That’s a start. Besides, he’s kind of tired of hearing his boyfriend claim he has got the wrong version of the soundtrack for The Lord of the Rings trilogy. He presses play and instantly feels himself relax as the intro to Roots and Beginnings flows through the speakers and into the car. A soft sigh slips Connor’s lips as he closes his eyes, leaning back into his seat. 

They’re nearly half-through the soundtrack for The Two Towers when the verbal silence is broken. 

“How about those pancakes?” 

“We’ve been driving for like an hour. I thought this was a full-day dedication.” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise there was a rule about how soon you could eat when travelling.” 

Connor huffs out a chuckle. 

“If you brought coffee, we can stop. Because I’m guessing you got the food in the trunk.” 

“I’m kind of hurt you’d even suggest I hadn’t,” Oliver pouts, but he’s struggling to find that natural playful tone; let alone finding it funny himself. “ 

It takes another twenty minutes, but finally, there’s a tiny lay by in the middle of nowhere. That’s where they stop, stomachs growling. It is a nice day; late spring but not yet summer, warm but not yet hot. The birds chirp away from their secret spots in the trees as the two walk on the barely noticeable path leading into the woods. There’s green everywhere, except on the ground which is almost completely covered in flowers to the point where the green grass that manages to poke through looks odd in the scenery. 

“Are you sure we’re even allowed here?”Connor asks, glancing around. He’s nearly out of the car, turning to look at Oliver who’s getting the stuff out from the trunk. Oliver let his stomach do the packing, really, and the food basked is filled with more than just pancakes and oranges. He thinks there’s even a small bag of chips. For emergencies. “It doesn’t even look like a proper lay by. At least not one that isn’t like, private.” 

“Not really, but there’s no houses near so if someone sees us from afar and grabs their rifle, we’ll be long gone.” Connor snorts. “Honest, I can practically smell a rifle within a mile. My grandparents had this summer house, right? It was basically out in the middle of nowhere. Wyoming, you know. Their closest neighbour hated kids. Hated. Thing was, he had this amazing garden. He somehow managed to grow strawberries, really juicy ones too,” Oliver chuckles slightly for himself, remembering his childhood summers running with strawberries in every pocket, Mr. Tylerson not far behind with his rifle in a tight grip. “I mean, he never actually shot anybody. He caught one of us, though. My brother. He was still screaming by the time they reached my grandparents’ house.” Connor looks at his boyfriend as he tells the story, unable to stop a smile from forming on his lips. He can almost picture it; especially the part about his brother. The first time he’d met him, he’d accidentally scared the shit out of him… by merely stepping into the room. Perhaps Connor would’ve have been that way too, though, if he too spent his childhood summers being chased by a mad man with a rifle. But his thoughts are interrupted by Oliver’s voice. He realises, as he has a lot lately, that he doesn’t mind it at all. 

“Did you ever do anything like that? I mean, spend your summers somewhere…” 

“Uh, yeah. Keith’s parents had a big ranch in the heart of Alabama,” Connor shrugs. “We didn’t really steal strawberries, though. Did a lot of fishing.” His stepfather had always tried to include him as much as he did with his own sons. He’d always moan about it, but he still thinks back at those boring fishing days as some of the best days of his childhood. He smiles softly for himself, scratching the top of his head. “I didn’t really like the fishing, but this one time, Michael tripped over his own fishing rod and fell face-first into the water. It was beautiful.” 

“If anyone ever doubts you’re the youngest… Wait, was Michael the hot one or the dick?” 

“The dick. He was hot too, though.” 

“I kind of want to meet him. Makes you wonder what he’s like if Connor Walsh calls him a dick.” Connor stares at him. Half-amused, half-annoyed. Oliver just shrugs in return. 

“Should we get back in the car? Or do you wanna like, stay and wait for an angry man with a loaded rifle?” 

“Car, please.” 

There is a new sense of calm in the car as they continue their ride; Connor humming along to the music as Oliver struggles to steer the car and eat a folded pancake at the same time. The nutella filling gets all over his chin and Connor has to lean over, attempting to wipe it away as much as possible with the napkin in his left hand. His right hand is reserved for his half-eaten pancake, of course. He kisses away the last bits of chocolate. The slight stubble tickles against his lips. The dark with its monsters and screams hasn’t felt this distant in weeks.


End file.
